


If You Can't Beat Them

by doomcanary



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-24
Updated: 2014-03-24
Packaged: 2018-01-16 21:25:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1362286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doomcanary/pseuds/doomcanary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are some who claim that all the inns of Paris are the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If You Can't Beat Them

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Si no puedes con ellos...](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1305661) by [Insideblue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Insideblue/pseuds/Insideblue). 



> **Author's original note:** Written for the Musketeers kink meme on **musketeers-esp**. For the prompt "Everyone thinks Aramis and Porthos are together.. except them, until they realise: hey, maybe they're right in the end... and have sex!"

There are some who claim that all the inns of Paris are the same. If you've seen one, you've seen them all. Men with faces slackened by alcohol, entrenched behind their tankards. A rising hubbub of shouts, insults and curses, interrupting the tempo of the songs that seem to go on and on for hours without changing. Faces that bear the imprint of sea or soil. The smell of burnt meat, of bodies crowded into tight places and of sour beer festering in the sawdust.

Those who say that are forgetting the laughter, the chafe of a playing card hidden inside a sleeve, the mischievous wink caught from beneath a tilted brim. Above all they are forgetting the women. In all the inns of Paris, no two women are the same.

This particular woman offers Aramis a glass of wine, followed by a snaggle-toothed smile. She's just the type he likes: nothing like the last one.

There are some who claim that Aramis is a romantic. In fact he's more a collector of subtleties – like the sweat-sheened dark skin on her breast or the curl that falls across a dark eyebrow. Or the way her lips press together in satisfaction when he takes the drink; they're red with the remains of lip paint.

Beauty wasn't made for those who choose not to see it.

“Tell me your name.”

“So you can forget it in the morning?”

“I won't forget it.”

“Have another drink. Maybe it'll make you a better liar.”

Aramis would most like to drink the drop of moisture that creeps downwards towards the neckline of her dress, and the moisture that creeps a little further down, too. He murmurs this into her ear, his lips brushing that tiny cool place just at the edge of her skin. She turns her eyes towards him, watches him under a dark knife-edge of lashes.

“I don't know. Maybe you should ask your friend what he thinks. He might want to join us. I wouldn't mind asking.”

A movement lifts Aramis's head and signals to Porthos, who drops his gaze. Aramis laughs into her neck; it's a fairly common mistake.

“I don't think so. He doesn't like to share.”

Porthos' fingers form an arc and he shuffles the cards with a movement of his thumb, his eyes fixed on the man opposite him. Aramis knows that's not who Porthos is watching. It's something they do, each one always aware of the other. Alert. Watching each other's backs.

“No. It doesn't look like it. You're sure?” she says, closer to his lips.

“Completely,” he replies, and Aramis is nothing if not convincing. His fingers find a way between the folds of her skirt, and soon after they find their way to the stairs.

He winks at Porthos, who nods his head minutely, once.

If he's needed, he knows where he is.

 

*

 

“I don't think I've seen anyone fight like that in my life,” says D'Artagnan, sitting down on the stone surround of the fountain and glancing at Porthos. Porthos at present is haggling with one of the merchants to get them some wine. “He's an animal.”

“He's nicer than he seems,” says Aramis with a wink. He takes off his gloves and flexes his aching knuckles. Recently the party never seems to end. Yesterday horses stolen from under their noses, and this morning a brawl between two gangs of thieves right in the heart of the city. The boy is keeping pace with them and that's saying a lot. Whatever Treville thinks of him, he's going to have no choice but to accept him. They'll find a way.

“Really?” The lad doesn't seem convinced.

“And a lot more gentle. You'll get it soon.”

D'Artagnan raises an eyebrow. “Mmm?” His eyes focus over Aramis's shoulder, and  _oh shit._

“ _Gentle?_ Seriously? Gentle? I'll show you.”

Aramis's hat flies off his head with a jerk of the feather and he's not even started to react when Porthos is on him. Arms like tree trunks clamp down on his head and mess up his hair. He tries to push, but Porthos' legs must be bolted down – no-one could get away from him.

“Let go of me!”

“I'm being gentle.”

“Get off! Now!”

“ _Oooh._ ” Aramis can't see Porthos but he's got to be pouting, the bastard. “You're horrible to me. But I love you anyway.”

Porthos plants a kiss on the crown of his head. Aramis manages to free a hand and snaps “Hey, hey, hey!”. When he finally comes up for air, D'Artagnan's face is suspended between confusion and disquiet; he doesn't seem to know quite what to think.

“Feisty as ever, _Mademoiselle._ ” Porthos laughs, showing every tooth in his head. He goes up to D'Artagnan and pats him gently on the chest. He gives a knowing, satisfied wink which Aramis is certain will be the death of him.

“See? Gentle as a lamb.”

Aramis glares, which only makes Porthos laugh harder. Porthos leaves two bottles of wine with the boy and goes to look for Athos. Aramis picks up his hat. Now he'll have to go home and clean off the mud.

“This. You and Porthos...” D'Artagnan's lips purse and Aramis raises an eyebrow, reading between the lines of his nervous expression. “You two have known each other a long time, right?”

Aramis shakes out the wreckage of his hat, which makes very little difference.

“Too long.”

 

*

 

“Stop grumbling, all four of you. This request comes directly from the king, so you're just going to have to swallow your pride and do what needs to be done. And if I hear another word about this there will be consequences. Anything else?”

Treville meets each of their eyes, hands clasped behind his back and a look on his face which clearly states there'd better not be.

D'Artagnan coughs, but sobers instantly when the full weight of Treville's attention falls on him. Aramis has been there; Treville's stares are impressively forbidding.

“Get out.”

The Captain turns his back on them and they take the opportunity to exchange glances. Porthos squares his shoulders and gives an audible snort. For the next two days they will be joining the Cardinal's men, reinforcing security for the public events the festival demands. There are rumours that someone is after Richelieu; though none of the musketeers consider this a problem, apparently His Majesty feels differently.

They file out of the room, heads low.

“Aramis. A moment.”

Treville takes his time studying one of his parchments before rolling it, tying it with a fine red cord and leaving it on the table. Aramis shifts his weight nervously.

“I'm sure I don't need to say this, but keep Porthos under control.”

“Captain?”

“He doesn't seem too pleased with the idea.”

“With the greatest respect, Sir, none of us are.”

“I want no complaints about any of you,” Treville continues, as if Aramis hadn't spoken, “and you will make sure that happens.”

“I'll keep an eye on him.”

“Very good.”

Aramis moves to go, but the Captain's voice stops him.

“And Aramis. I really hope that, since the two of you are involved in all this, you'll manage to instil in him some sense of discipline.”

Treville raises his eyebrows significantly. Aramis takes a moment to absorb the insinuations that drip between the lines. The fact that this time it's Captain Treville making them is a little too much for him to take.

“In'all this', Sir?”

The Captain holds his gaze for an instant longer. Finally he turns away, attention directed once more to his paperwork.

“That's all. Close the door on your way out.”

 

Well, then.

 

*

 

_Mrs_ Bonacieux is, objectively speaking, one of the most beautiful women Aramis has ever had the pleasure of setting eyes on. 

Aramis maintains an air of icy calm while Mme. Bonacieux arranges locks of her hair into an intricate style scattered with ornamental details. A dress of fine gauzes and velvet appliques clings to her waist; fine brocade outlines the curve of her breast, making her seem the kind of lady who could walk carelessly into places Aramis would get thrown out of.

“You look beautiful, my lady,” he says, without meaning to. Only because it's the truth, and because it helps him squeeze a smile past his nerves. Vows were something Aramis had lost respect for a while ago, but a friend is a friend; he'd seen enough with a couple of glances to know very well what his place was.

“Thank you,” she says with a sigh. “I just hope it'll be convincing enough. Would you mind putting this on for me?”

_Mrs_ Bonacieux hands him a necklace, and Aramis puts it around her neck, carefully parting the curls that fall down her back to tighten the knot. She catches his hand just as he's drawing it back. Green eyes seek out his in the mirror.

“I'm sure Porthos will be all right,” she says, squeezing his hand affectionately. Aramis knows it's a gesture meant to make herself feel better as much as him, and squeezes hers in return. Of course they'll be fine. It takes a lot more than this to stop those three. They'll get in, and get them out, and -

“My lady?”

Constance Bonacieux turns red to the roots of her hair.

“That is – er - “ She closes her eyes and opens her mouth, making a strangled sound in her throat. Aramis doesn't know whether to laugh or cry.

_Dear God. Her too._

“I'm sure _everyone_ will be fine,” he says, as neutrally as he can and with what he hopes is a touch of subtlety.

“Of course! I didn't mean to – it's none of my business. I just wanted-” She trips over her tongue, hands making nervous circles in the air. Discomfited, she fans herself with her fingers and Aramis has to stop this before it gets any worse.

“We should go.”

“Excellent idea,” says Constance, visibly relieved. She picks up her skirts and goes to the door, but clearly there's some unfavourable alignment of stars behind all this. Aramis wishes the floor would open up and swallow him as _Mrs_ Bonacieux stops a few paces away; she seems to have something else to say.

“I just want you both to know you have my complete support,” she says with a determined smile. She must see something in Aramis's expression because she anxiously adds “If there was anything you needed it for, of course.”

Aramis's chest deflates itself in a sigh.

 

*

 

“Oh, I'll drink, a drink, a drink, to Lily the p – I think I'm going to be sick.”

“Hold on just a bit longer, we're nearly – oh.”

Athos leans over towards the edge of the road, and there goes a lovely fillet steak. According to the unwritten rules of friendship, Aramis holds his hair out of the way. At least this is one of Athos's good benders. Normally, a drunk Athos is a depressed Athos, but tonight he seems to have got out of bed the right side for once, and although they've now gone through nearly the entire nocturnal repertoire of the city's minstrels, Aramis is grateful that Athos is in this mood. He deserves a rest. From himself, more than anything.

Once he's finished puking Aramis lets go, and Athos goes back to supporting himself on his shoulder. He sways a couple of times and Aramis has to grab his clothes hard to stop him falling. Porthos and D'Artagnan's laughter can be heard behind them.

“Ugh. The floor's going round.”

“It's your head that's going round. Come on, this foot first.”

Aramis gives him a gentle kick and Athos groans but starts to walk. Porthos's voice reaches them from behind with something that sounds insulting, and Athos turns round to shout at him, achieving nothing more than eliciting a bellow of laughter which echoes against the stone walls - and of course that just makes Athos angrier.

“You know what? I don't care,” he says into Aramis's ear, as Aramis tries to lean away from his breath. “He's only jealous.”

“Mmhm.” At night the streets all look the same and Aramis is too busy trying to work out which way to go. He decides on the left-hand fork.

“You want me to tell you what I think?” continues Athos, elbowing him conspiratorially as if to say, _just between you and me_.

“Would it make any difference if I didn't?”

“Hah. No.” Athos looks back again, then at Aramis. He lets his head drop till his forehead is resting against Aramis's temple. “I think you like him.”

The only one who'd been missing from the set.

“D'Artagnan?” Conversational tone. That's the key with this. Keep it casual and act as if it's the first time you've heard it.

“What? Have you gone crazy?” This time it's Athos's guffaw that threatens to wake the entire city. “Of course not. Porthos, dude. Did you _want_ me to say something different?”

Aramis must have done something wrong. Very, very wrong, if it's the reason this is happening to him.

“I didn't want you to say it at all.”

Athos's laughter becomes a grunt and he looks at Aramis sideways. One eyebrow is raised, much to Aramis's distaste, in incredulity.

“I think you like him. Fuck, you really like him.”

Sometimes, there is a perfectly clear point between what a person is willing to tolerate and the straw that breaks the camel's back. At this precise moment that point is Athos, his right toe colliding with his left heel as he petulantly hums the rest of _Come into the garden, Maud._

“Why?” Aramis is shouting. _Don't shout._ “Why does everyone keep going on about this? Is it some kind of joke or something?” A ray of hope dawns on Aramis. “Was it Porthos's idea?”

“Eh? No,” snorts Athos, flicking away some imaginary insect with his hand. For a moment he seems to forget what he was saying, until his brow creases and he tilts his head. “So who's everyone?”

Aramis looks away, but from the corner of his eye he can see how Athos's smile widens until it's showing every tooth he has.

“Well, I'm not surprised, it's pretty obvious.”

“There is _nothing_ to _be_ obvious.”

“Of course. I suppose things are often clearer from a distance.”

_Almighty God, I really need you to save me right now._

“What's clearer from a distance?” D'Artagnan topples onto Athos's free shoulder, and – just his luck – Porthos materialises at Aramis's side. He flicks Aramis's hat with his finger; it jumps upward and almost gets away entirely.

“Yeah, what?” he says. Aramis straightens his hat with a growl.

Athos's eyebrows raise in a clear  _I've already told you._

“Nothing. Nothing is happening at all,” says Aramis, ignoring him, but Porthos's hand closes on his waist and Athos giggles.

Aramis does not find this funny in the least.

 

*

 

“Wait. I can't hear you.”

Aramis turns slightly in his saddle. He bestows a glare on the man riding with his hands tied just behind; a glare which he hopes expresses how much more that man is worth with his mouth closed. The thug stares back for a few seconds, defying him slightly longer than common sense would suggest, but stays quiet.

“You were saying?”

“I wanted to know if I could ask you something.”

“Of course. What?”

“Well. The thing is that lately I've been, er, hearing some strange things...” Porthos's lips press into a line, his gaze boring into the road. It's not like him to show insecurity. Normally he's all jokes, and a cheek so barefaced it's nearly got him killed more than once. In the seconds of silence that follow Aramis fears the worst; he's been having a run of bad luck recently, and he can guess what this is about.

“And the other day Athos...”

“What did Athos say to you?”

Porthos's mouth opens in an O, crumples, and tries an A instead. It closes.

And on top of everything else Aramis is going to have to be the one to say it.

“Something about.. you? And,” - Aramis coughs - “me?”

Porthos nods slowly, his eyes turned skyward and his tongue running over his teeth, contemplatively.

“Well, _more or less_ about you and me.”

Fantastic.

“You shouldn't take any notice of him when he's drunk. He opens that mouth and then it all comes out.”

“He wasn't drunk.”

_Oh._

He hears a cough behind him.

“But it was definitely all coming out. He said that you -” Porthos's hand circles in the air, as if he was trying to get words out of himself by force - “and that I... but I don't, obviously.”

“”Nor me,” Aramis hastily agrees. Perhaps a little too hastily – but with style.

“He must have been drinking earlier.”

“Definitely.”

“ _Please.”_

They look back, at their prisoner, who rolls his eyes.

“Don't let me stop you. At least you're making me look forward to getting to prison.”

Aramis jerks the rope that binds the prisoner's hands, just in case he's forgotten where he's sitting. They turn towards the road once more.

“Anyway, it's the stupidest idea I've heard in my life. And coming from Athos, of all people.”

“I always thought he was the bright one of the three of us,” says Aramis with a solemn sigh.

“I mean, the idea that you and me could – you know.” Porthos shakes his head, as if to dislodge a particularly repulsive idea. “I can't even imagine it.”

It's possible that Aramis feels something like anger stir in his gut. Women queue up to be with him. A lot of women. Constantly. It's not that Aramis wants Porthos to _like_ him, or anything like that, but a bit of tact isn't too much to ask.

“Unthinkable,” he agrees, putting on a disgusted expression. His pride may be a little stung but if he can't win, at least he can get even.

Porthos frowns.

“Hey! Up front. Why don't you shut up and wait till you can write all this down in your diaries? They'll torture me enough when we get there. There's no need to start now.”

“I think perhaps you haven't understood who's giving the orders here,” Aramis warns him through gritted teeth.

“Oh, no. Unlike yourselves I'm not trying to fool myself wallowing around in the depths of denial.” The prisoner gives them a false smile. “And just so you know, I think your friend is definitely the brightest of the three.”

“Well congratulations. Because what I think is that you've just earnt yourself a gag.”

 

*

 

“Look. I can see the key from here.”

“And I'm telling you again that we don't have any free rooms. There's another inn three miles further down the road. Maybe you'll have some luck there.”

The journey has gone by without incident. Three days at full gallop to Lyon, stopping only long enough to rest before travelling on. The message sent by Treville was in good hands, and now, after the delicious meal filling his stomach, Aramis just wants to sleep in a bed as the good Lord intended before he has to get back on the road to Paris. And no grumpy innkeeper is going to stop him.

“I'd prefer that key.”

“No -”

“Got a problem?” Porthos, who has been listening to the conversation from his table, comes up to them. He folds his arms across his chest and frowns with faint confusion. Porthos knows how to be subtle when he wants to; it is, therefore, very obvious both that this rather muscular (and rather taller than he first appeared) gentleman does not see what problem there could possibly be, and that it would be a good idea not to have any problem at all with this rather muscular gentleman (who is rather taller than he first appeared).

The innkeeper looks uncomfortable.

“I was just trying to explain to your... _friend_ ,” he says, favouring Aramis with a narrow-eyed glare, “that we have no twin rooms available at this moment. You'll have to look for accommodation elsewhere.”

_Oh_ . Of all things, it would have to be that.

“Hm. We'll see. And that key over there?” Porthos gestures with his chin and the innkeeper moves a step to the right, in a futile attempt to conceal the key with his body.

“It's for an ordinary room. And this is a decent establishment.” He straightens his back as he says it, gaze fixed on Porthos, who whistles and hides a smile behind the brim of his hat.

“Well, well. So it's this again,” Aramis hears him say.

And it's not that Aramis has already had more than enough of this. It's not that his face is about to drop in shame now Porthos knows too. It's that if there's one thing that annoys him more than anything else it's someone telling him what he can and can't do.

“Sir,” he says in his best affronted tone, eyes wide and incredulous, “surely you can't be describing two of the King's musketeers as indecent?”

He reaches his hand towards his chest, where the documents that prove he's a member of the Musketeers actually are not concealed, but it's enough to fire the imagination of the innkeeper. The man is clearly debating whether to believe Aramis and thus permit whatever it is that he's imagining, or directly insult a member of the royal guard and suffer the consequences.

“The beds are narrow, my lord,” says the innkeeper, without losing his air of defiance in the slightest. “I was simply trying to save you the discomfort.”

Porthos snorts out a derisive laugh behind him and Aramis, who has been carrying this damn cross since he doesn't know when, decides that the least he can do is get some fun out of it. He leans over the counter and lowers his voice so that only the innkeeper can hear.

“And I thank you for such genuine concern. But I'm sure my friend and I will manage to squeeze in.”

The innkeeper freezes to the spot, for so long that Aramis is on the point of poking him to see if he's dropped dead or something. Finally, he takes the key and dumps it on the counter.

_At last._

Aramis turns, satisfied, and finds himself looking directly into the amused eyes of Porthos.

“What?”

“Nothing, nothing.” Porthos's lips twist as if he's trying to hold back laughter. “Shall we go to bed, love?”

“Seriously?”

Porthos winks.

“You know what they say, if you can't beat them...”

Ah. Join them.

 

*

 

Porthos's knees are sunk into the mud, his hands tied behind his back. Blood soaks into white of his shirt with every breath, bubbling out of the bullet wound. It's his damn personality, too impulsive, completely incapable of waiting. If he had done, perhaps things might be different now. Perhaps he wouldn't have a dagger pressed against his head.

Perhaps Aramis wouldn't have arrived too late.

“I want you to stay very still. Exactly where you are. And I want those pistols on the floor. Now.”

Tournier's quiet voice belies the madness in his eyes. They've been following his trail of bodies for weeks, but the man himself has got clean away every time. The people he works for don't care what he gets up to as long as he manages that. Tournier's true purpose is not to feed the rats with the leftovers he's tossing aside along the way.

“I know you're not stupid enough to believe you're not going to die, just so we're clear. Your friend here doesn't talk easily. I can fix that, but I need some names. The question, Aramis, is how much it will take to make you give them up, before I leave him far more attractive than he is now. I have also made a few observations.”

_Aramis_ . He's been following them. He must have anticipated this. Tournier may be insane but he's far too clever. And now he's got the drop on them.

“I don't have any names. We were ordered to watch you and that's what we're doing. Neither of us knows anything more.”

“Come, Aramis. Don't play yourself down. We _always_ know more.” Tournier's eyes open wide, mask-like. He moves the blade of the dagger over Porthos's forehead, the point over his left eyebrow, his other hand pulling Porthos' head back. “I, for example, know that he took this wound in his first campaign. From the depth, I know it missed his eye by a fraction of an inch. I know who had to stitch it up. I know who did this, too.”

 

The dagger slashes the skin from the end of the scar to the jawbone. Porthos yells and thrashes, and Aramis's body reacts of its own accord. He stops dead when Tournier makes a sound, rests the dagger at the bottom of Porthos's eye socket.

“One more step and he'll have to turn his head to look at you.”

“He won't tell you,” hisses Porthos through clenched teeth. “Not a single fucking name, you fuck.”

“Ah. You see?” Tournier gestures with the dagger in satisfaction, showing his blackened teeth in a smile. For a fraction of a second, Aramis thinks he sees another glint of metal in the distance. “We always know more. Now spit it out, before I start cutting your boyfriend to pieces.”

“If you touch him again you'll beg me to sew your pieces back together.”

“So much loyalty, and so little sense. I think we'll leave the best till last, so you can enjoy it.”

He removes the blade from Porthos's face and rips open his shirt, baring his chest. Porthos fights him, trying to get free, but Tournier has him well restrained. A little closer, among the shadows, Aramis discerns another metallic glimmer, and this time he's sure.

This time, it's his turn to smile.

“Careful with that hand.”

“What?”

The first musket ball punches through Tournier's wrist. The second hits his leg at the knee. The dagger touches the ground for a fraction of a second before it's in Porthos's hand. He stabs it into Tournier's shoulder, his throat. When Aramis pulls him off his hands and face are covered in blood.

“It's over. It's over. Hey. Easy. _Easy.”_

He holds Porthos up with all the strength he has and Porthos's fingers lock around his shoulders. He's panting and his body is shaking with terror. Athos's footsteps approach, his boots rapping on the stone. He kicks Tournier with a toe; the body moves and falls back, slack, inert.

“We thought we weren't going to get here in time.” D'Artagnan arrives at a run, eyes wide with concern. He looks at Porthos, already calmer, and then at Aramis, who responds with a curt nod to the question in D'Artagnan's eyes.

“Damn the pair of you,” huffs Athos. “Don't you know how to wait?”

Aramis's fingers are tangled in Porthos's hair and his body is tight with the knowledge that this was the closest one yet. A few seconds more and God alone knows how this might have ended. He thinks it will take centuries to get back all the air that's vanished from his lungs.

“Tell that to my boyfriend.”

Porthos's laugh vibrates in the hollow of his neck, wet and alive. Aramis hugs him a little too tight.

 

*

 

“Ow!”

“Stay still.”

“I can't stay still if I don't know what you're doing to my _face_.”

“It's just a couple of stitches, don't be a baby. It's not going to turn out any worse than it was before.”

“Are you calling me ugly?”

Aramis cleans away the blood seeping out of the stitches and makes the final suture with care. Porthos's whole body tenses, but this time he tolerates the pain with no complaints. It will leave a scar, of course. Aramis has done the best he can but it's inevitable. He still feels that inside himself, a deep sense of rage that doesn't dwindle. He wishes Tournier would come back to life so that this time Aramis could kill the man himself.

Porthos closes his eyes, his teeth clenched so tightly that Aramis can feel the force of the jaw muscle shifting beneath his fingers.

“Nearly done.”

Porthos makes a sound of assent in his throat. His fingers are locked into the sheet so tightly his knuckles are white.

“Thank you,” he says, very quietly, almost without moving. Aramis's fingers brush the bandage that covers his shoulder. Blood stains the white cloth already and it's bad enough, but it'll heal, like so many others. Another war wound in a skin that's already collected too many.

“I'd rather you thought about it before you go running off half-cocked next time.”

“I knew you'd come after me.” Porthos's voice is hoarse, low, touched with a hint of a smile.

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“It ought to.”

It does make him feel better. That's what they do, when all's said and done. Watch each other's backs.

“I came close this time, didn't I?”

Aramis nods, knowing full well he can't look at Porthos. If he spoke aloud he'd have to say that yes, this time Porthos nearly had gone, that if luck hadn't turned a blind eye he'd be dead now. That's what he's feeling in his stomach; impotent rage. He knows what he would have done if it hadn't been for Athos and D'Artagnan. He knows they'd both have died. It's not his own death that matters to him, all men die, but Porthos...

“Really close.” Porthos drops his head back when Aramis cuts the thread. They're close, so close Aramis can see the divided skin of the old scar, the tiny flecks in Porthos's eyes where his laughter hides.

“You remember what Athos said? And I said I couldn't imagine it?”

“I remember.” Aramis doesn't really know why he's whispering, it's just that their voices fit there in the space between two bodies; and when Porthos looks at him, it feels like that space is the whole world.

“Well, I have imagined it once or twice,” says Porthos, with a shy smile. He shakes his head a little, perturbed. Aramis wants to reach out his fingers, touch those lips that don't know when to shut up. “More than once or twice. It might be my fault, really.”

“So you were the one putting weird ideas in Athos's head?”

“I didn't know it. But maybe I was.”

Aramis knows this game. He's been playing it all his life, as long as he can remember. Porthos is playing the game with him now, and he's playing it with Porthos. And the truth is that it doesn't matter to him, not even slightly. He thinks about how close he'd been to losing Porthos and the truth is, if he's honest with himself, he doesn't mind who'll be in the right.

“So what did you imagine?”

He doesn't move a muscle, because Aramis is a collector of details; he reads them, feels them the way he feels water in the creases of his feet, and he reads in Porthos's body the exact moment when he moves forward, tilts his head. Perhaps he's a little more romantic than he likes to admit, too, and maybe that's why he still doesn't move when Porthos's breath touches his lips; it's sweet and yet something that's purely Porthos, a hint of wildness, a flash of mischief when Porthos notices the smile against his skin. And then he can't stay still at all, because Porthos is kissing him and Aramis needs to know what his mouth tastes like.

“Fuck.”

“Come here.”

Aramis has done this many times, with so many different women he's lost count. He knows their shapes, their folds and curves, how to make them moan, beg for more with words that shatter on their tongues. Porthos is different. Not because of his skin, soft on the curve of his belly, harsher where the shadow of stubble prickles on his cheek. Not because of the sharp angles of his hips or the firm touch of his hands as they search for a way to take Aramis's shirt off; not because of the way they caress the skin beneath it, palms on his sides, warm against the skin of his arms. Not because of the strength with which those hands draw him closer, topple them onto the bed and rub across his clothes, impatient and not enough and Porthos is kissing him open-mouthed, tongue swiping between his lips. It's because he's _Porthos_ , who's fought beside him, fallen beside him, stood at his side. Aramis remembers every piece of Porthos's skin cut open in battle. Every laugh, every shared glance, every sleepless night, every bottle of wine swigged down in the small hours and Porthos, always Porthos. Every woman in Paris is different, unique; Porthos is unique too, and it makes no sense but that makes him different to everything Aramis knows.

“Aramis. I want -” Porthos throws his head back, hands going to his temples, eyes closed. Aramis takes the opportunity to bite the hollow of his neck.

“What?”

“I don't know. I want so many things – I haven't got a clue -” He laughs, teeth white, skin creasing at the corners of his mouth. Aramis wants that laugh, wants to eat it whole. He begins at the very edge, following each shape carefully, wanting to miss nothing. He pushes down on his hips until he has his tongue inside that mouth, writhing and whispering words that fall apart before they finish.

“Let me try.”

He supports himself on one arm and with the other unbuckles Porthos's belt, slides his breeches down. Porthos lets him, very still, eyes fixed on his, and Aramis touches slowly; the softness of the muscle, the hollow of the skin a little closer, and then just his thumb, from the base up. The barest contact and Porthos arches up without breaking his gaze; he breathes faster, less evenly when Aramis closes his fingers around his cock, just as gently, until Porthos starts to move against him, seeking friction. He pushes up, falls back, his stomach tightens and he gasps. Aramis lets go.

“You won't be -”

“Shh.”

He tries to take off his own belt but Porthos isn't waiting; he pulls it off roughly. He tries to sit up to kiss him, but Aramis puts a hand on his chest, pushing him back. He seeks Porthos's mouth with his fingers, needing to feel the texture of those lips. Porthos moans, bites his ring finger, sucks and licks and it's Aramis who kisses him then, sloppy and wet. He lowers his body and they're there, skin against skin, and Aramis moves his hips till they're sliding against each other, Porthos's hands sliding down to his arse, making him thrust harder.

“Wait. Wait. You've got – your shoulder -”

“Forget about that.”

Porthos scratches the skin of Aramis' belly with his nails, and slides his hand down, warmly caressing both of them. Aramis isn't taking any notice of Porthos's shoulder now. He moves slowly against Porthos's hand, feeling the burn of their skin everywhere it touches, a release every time they hit just the right spot, slow and maddening with Porthos moaning wordlessly in the curve of his ear, trying to speed up the rhythm. Aramis feels climax uncoiling in the roots of his belly but he doesn't want it, not yet, not if Porthos has his eyes shut like that. He can see the tight curve of Porthos's lashes, his lips open and slick, the way he reaches for Aramis eagerly, body taut against him, tense and right on the edge. Aramis takes his wrist and immobilises his arm against the bed. He thrusts slow and hard, grinding his hips down, once, twice, and Porthos is coming in gasps like a dying man. His lungs force out all their air with a cracked laugh at the end and Aramis can't take this, the feel of liquid heat between their bodies – his rhythm collapses completely as he comes, Porthos' mouth swallowing his groan. Porthos returns a kiss to him gently, playing with the ends of his hair, lifting his legs to wrap around him and Aramis thinks no, there's nothing like this in all of France. Maybe the world.

 

*

 

“I'd say from the look of things that the two of you have come to a few conclusions,” says Athos several days later, clasping his hands behind his back and stretching. He casts a glance at Aramis's clothes, which are still a disaster in spite of his best efforts; his hat is completely ruined where he trod on it by accident.

“A few.”

Porthos appears round the corner, tugging at his cape in a manner which leaves little room for doubt. There's a wisp of straw in his hair which Aramis forgot to pick out.

“Well, it was about time.”

 

Aramis squares himself under Treville's gaze, trying to appear as composed as possible. Porthos doesn't have quite as much luck; the straw waves in the breeze and earns a disapproving look. D'Artagnan makes it his business to snatch the straw away while the Captain's back is turned.

“Might I enquire what exactly you two have been up to?” the Captain asks, looking at Aramis and Porthos.

“Proving me right,” Athos informs him, eyes never wavering from front and centre.

This time, Aramis doesn't mind admitting it.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Translator's note: 
> 
> The first time I've used my ludicrously expensive degree in sixteen years and what am I doing with it? Translating M/M fanfic smut. This is either an epic win or an epic lose. I can't decide which. But I still think it's a cute and wonderful piece of fic that deserves translation. I had fun :)


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